The poem as an alcove
The white house in electric blue heat
Bo Peep’s negligee
The crook of her
(crook)
the door to
the small room under the stairs
The man had said
Little piggie let me in
The animals were in their pens
They said
Yes we do have a language
Here it is
Here it is
Wheeohhhweeohhweeohh
The poem as a tattoo-artist, of sorts
Say, where you been
What you done with my body
Mark me up
Bastard
Cheat
Inner thigh
For no reason
I want to touch you
Back of the knee
Kiss me
Kiss me Shirley
I don’t care
I don’t
Even if it’s a small one
Even if
Touch my stomach
Oh god, you’re so beautiful